Leviathan was the greatest foot soldier of Legion. He may not have had the acclaim the higher ranks earned, but he was unmatched with a sword. He had become to be known as a beast of a demon, armed with a sharpened slab of steel longer than he was tall. His nameless weapon. Together with his notoriety, Leviathan was the unofficial leader of a small squadron. Their real leader was a drunken mess, so they had turned to Leviathan for commands instead. He had happily obliged. In his squadron were five soldiers: Yarrle Balugraf, Pikk Anik Baas’kett, Jiiro Zep’puli, Al’afons El’rikk and Alexandrus Buss’kull. Leviathan wasn’t yet sure why he had been given the most confusingly named soldiers in Legion, but over timed he had memorized their names anyway. Leviathan valued his soldiers. The least he could do was remember what they were called. On the five hundredth anniversary of Satan Six’s reign, Leviathan sat in his squadron’s tent, sharpening his weapon. Rain battered the leather ceiling, creating an almost soothing melody that helped Leviathan relax. Jiiro, a lanky demon who fought by throwing metal spheres at his enemies, lay in his hammock, tapping his knees to a beat in his head. Jiiro had some affinity with music Leviathan was yet to understand. He hoped to one day ask Jiiro about it. Yarrle and Al’afons had begrudgingly gone out on some errand from their “real” leader. The remaining two squadron members; the hulking, ferocious Pikk and the mortal Alexandrus, slept in their hammocks, undisturbed by the occasional claps of thunder in the distance. There hadn’t been a war in some time. Legion was getting lazy. In his obsession with creating the spy system, Satan had neglected the common soldiers. Now all they had to do was maintenance and sleep. Leviathan was still ready though. He stayed on constant guard, wary of an attack from the great King Baal or the malignant Lord of the Flies. All threats to Satan would feel Leviathan’s blade in their spine.

‘You alright there, chief?’ asked Jiiro.

Leviathan realised he had begun absent-mindedly smashing his weapon’s blade with the sharpening stone. He sometimes got caught up in his bloodlust like that. No big deal. Leviathan chalked up another blade chip to the collection and continued sharpening.

‘No problem at all,’ he replied.

Leviathan and his squadron were awoken early the next morning by a command to assemble the Legion ranks. A haze of confusion and shock hung over the soldiers’ gigantic camp. A full assembly of Legion in its entirety was an astoundingly rare occurrence, typically only occurring once or twice every Satan. The last, and only time, Satan Six had called an assembly was when he had announced the spy initiative. Another assembly would either mean another rank addition (unlikely so far into Six’s reign), a war command, or…

Leviathan’s throat clenched as he squeezed into his ceremonial, horned armour. He had a feeling he knew what was about to happen.

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The million demons and mortals of Legion stood in perfect rows, weapons at their sides. The rain from the previous night had only strengthened, coming down in waves from the deep red clouds above. Just visible through the fog was Satan’s fortress, towering in the distance. A large iron stage had been built close by, high enough to be seen from the back of the rows. From his spot in the middle of the drenched crowd, Leviathan could almost make out Orobas, Satan’s horse-headed advisor, standing on the stage. A glowing pentagram at his feet amplified his voice as he spoke.

‘Legion! I know you have all taken great pleasure in the powerful and cunning reign of out dear Sixth Satan, but now his time has come to a tragic end.’

Legion gasped and murmured. Commanders barked for silence. Leviathan’s fears had been confirmed.

Orobas nodded in acknowledge of the commanders and continued. ‘Like his predecessors before him, the Reaper has finally come for Satan Six, to take him to the afterlife where he can torture souls for eternity in peace. Although I am saddened to see his end, we must all take solace in…’

Orobas continued droning on about Six’s achievements and various demonic life lessons to be learned from them for an hour or so. Weighed down in their impractical ceremony plating and near drowning in the downpour, Legion was beginning to grow quite restless. When Orobas finally moved on from his speech, the relief around Leviathan was palpable.

‘And now we come to his successor,’ Orobas said. He paused to unfold some kind of note. ‘Apparently, the… Grim Reaper himself will be making the selection.’

Orobas seemed just as surprised as Legion. The Reaper never made public appearances. Slowly, a wave of dread began to spread through the ranks. Not dread caused by Orobas’ words. A deeper, more primal power was at work. Leviathan could tell by the way the air stilled, the way the sound of the rain dulled and how the ground hardened. The Reaper was here. Everyone was still. Silent. No one dared even shiver. A dark fog enveloped Leviathan’s legs. Rain froze against his armour. Icicles hung from the horns. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. Down the rows to his left, a ghostly apparition wafted on the wind. It was made of the same black fog that spread through the army. From a distance, it appeared like a cloaked figure, but as it drew closer to Leviathan, he could see the spectre’s form was much too shapeless to look as a hooded demon. The Reaper gently floated toward Leviathan. The dread was overpowering. Leviathan wanted to throw up. His heart felt like it was trying to escape his chest. He couldn’t move or scream for help. The Grim Reaper reached Leviathan and stopped. At the top of its ghostly mass where the head might be, was a warped, throbbing skull of impossibly white, rubbery bone. The eyes were circular abysses with pinpricks of focused light in the centre and four rows of crooked teeth were arranged in a grin. The top of the cranium melted into the fog behind it. The skull was merely an illusion, not a physical object. Death could not be corporeal. A skeletal hand condensed in the fog and raised up, a finger pointed. Slowly, the Reaper sunk its finger into Leviathan’s chest.

You have been chosen, it said inside Leviathan’s head. The Reaper’s voice disturbed him to the core of his being. It was not a monstrous growl or a menacing rasp. It carried no malice or hate, no accent or inflection. It was simply words, and yet Leviathan could feel the evil behind them. This evil was far beyond the capacity of any Satan. It was on another level entirely. You will kill your squadron before ascending, the Reaper continued. Leviathan didn’t want to, but he knew he had no choice. Free will didn’t exist in the presence of the Grim Reaper.

That night, Leviathan slaughtered his fellow soldiers, and then the next morning, he was crowned Satan Seven.